


Soothe The Ragged Edges

by Archer973



Series: Build The Castle On Our Passions [3]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 10:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19462480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archer973/pseuds/Archer973
Summary: Trying to tend the wound left by his trip to Mexico, Bass encounters some unexpected help.





	Soothe The Ragged Edges

**Author's Note:**

> So this one is set sometime after everyone comes back from Mexico and after they deal with the outbreak, but before New Vegas. You'd probably have to fudge the timeline a little bit to make it actually fit, but I just really wanted some more softness between Bass and Charlie before we hit New Vegas, which is next.

Bass gritted his teeth as he moved the damp rag across his shoulder, trying futilely to reach the throbbing marks that were his souvenir of Cartel Nunez. Black ate at the edge of his vision as he forced his arm to stretch farther, pulling open the very wounds he was trying to clean. He cursed, hating his inability, his weakness. He knew that he could have asked the old man or Miles, but his pride was too much for that. So he had slunk away at the first chance to the stream where he now crouched, wet rag in one hand and the other balled into a fist against the pain.

“Jesus Christ.”

Bass spun, sword already in hand, though he swayed as the movement wrenched at his back. Charlie stood among the trees, her crossbow in hand, eyes wide. Bass let his sword drop back to the ground, sagging as the brief surge of adrenaline her appearance had given him waned.

“What the fuck happened, Bass?” Charlie demanded, advancing into the clearing, her blue eyes icy with anger. Bass tried to shrug, but immediately regretted it as another wave of sickening pain rolled through him, forcing him to stifle a gasp. Charlie let her crossbow fall to her side and crouched down beside Bass, her hand going to the unmarred skin of his shoulder and gently pushing him so that he turned and she could see the full extent of the damage. “Are these _whip marks_?”

“Apparently cartel bosses take trying to escape personally,” Bass said, the lightness of his voice trying to make a joke of it, but the undercurrent of pain was too heavy for there to be any real humor. “It could have been worse. Connor stopped it before they could do any permanent damage.”

“Connor was there? He _let_ them do this to you?” Charlie's voice was furious, but her hand was gentle, examining the outer edges of the raw skin with a delicate, practiced touch.

“He... he did it. The cartel boss made him.” Bass wasn't sure why he was telling Charlie any of this, but the words came unconsciously, automatic. And maybe he wanted her to know, to understand, why the pain was two-fold, physical agony augmented by the knowledge of how it came to be.

“Your _kid_ did this to you?” Charlie asked, aghast, and she sounded so much like Miles that Bass had to laugh, though it was weak and ragged.

“I guess I should have hugged him more.”

Bass knew Charlie was frowning at him, but she didn't say anything, just continued her examination. Bass was fine with the silence, letting his eyes drift closed as her fingers darted around his back like delicate, deadly butterflies. He had a moment of wishing the wounds were gone so that he could feel her hands on his skin without the pain, though he knew she never would have touched him like this if he hadn't been injured. A kiss in the heat of battle was one thing. Deliberate, unprompted physical contact was another.

“These need to be cleaned, and soon,” Charlie said finally, removing her hands from his back but remaining crouched close behind him. “They don't need stitches, thankfully, but I'll put a salve on them, to speed up the healing.”

“Regular Florence Nightingale,” Bass teased, but internally he relaxed. He trusted Charlie, trusted her to help him, like she had at the farmhouse. He could still remember how she looked, sitting on the bed beside him, her hand under his head and her face furrowed as she fed him small sips of water. It should have been demeaning. He should have felt weak, helpless. But he hadn't. He'd felt... safe.

“I don't know what that is, so I'm going to ignore you,” Charlie told him and Bass could almost hear the eyeroll. “Now, lay down on your stomach. You're lucky I was out hunting and have my med bag with me.”

“Boy Scout,” Bass muttered, but he lowered himself down onto the dry, slightly sandy bank of the stream, far enough up that his arm wouldn't trail in the water, but close enough that Charlie wouldn't have to reach far to wet the cloth, which he held up for her to take.

“Again, don't know what that is, so ignoring you,” Charlie said, taking the cloth. Bass heard her wet it in the stream and he braced himself. Charlie began to wipe at the tacky dried blood he could feel adhered to his skin and he shivered, the cool water a marked contrast to his hot, inflamed skin. Charlie was gentle, but it still hurt as she slowly, methodically began to clean the angry whip wheels, stopping every few moments to re-wet the cloth. Bass clenched his fist, trying not to think of the pain. He had fought through cartel enforcers with these fresh in his skin, but somehow this hurt more.

“You could have asked for help, you know.” Charlie's voice was quiet, her motions rhythmic in way that would have lulled him if they weren't so painful. “I know you don't like my grandfather, but Miles, me... you didn't have to skulk off like a whipped dog to lick your wounds in solitude.”

“Whipped dog, huh?” Bass repeated, turning his head so that he could look at Charlie out of the corner of his eye. Charlie frowned, not looking up from her task, then shrugged.

“A little on the nose, but you know what I mean, Bass.” Bass closed his eyes. He did know what she meant. But it had been bad enough that Miles had seen him like this when they were fresh, and he would rather eat hot coals than ask Rachel or her father. Connor, for all that he was his son, was still an unknown, and Charlie...

Charlie. It was strange that he didn't want his oldest friend, the one he had shared foxholes, booze, and blood with to see him so helpless, but Charlie... Maybe it was because he had seen her helpless first, drugged into unconsciousness by those bastards in the bar. He had carried her in his arms, her body limp and unresisting, had laid her down, cleaned the blood from her hands, and covered her with a blanket when she had started to shiver. It had been strange, being so careful with another human, especially after his time in New Vegas. But it had been... nice, in a way. He had seen all the ways to hurt a human body, to cause it pain. It had been nice to offer comfort instead.

“Alright, they're clean,” Charlie announced, and Bass was surprised to realize that as his mind had drifted with thoughts of her, so too had time passed, allowing her clean his back without every move burning him like fire. “I'll put the salve on, then you'll have to let it soak in. But it will help quite a bit with the healing, and the pain.”

“Good,” Bass said, and cracked an eyelid open so that he could look at her and the paste-filled glass jar she had taken out of the worn canvas bag at her hip. “I can't afford to be out of commission for long, not with these khaki fuckers cooking up plagues in every batch of produce. Miles may not be gimpy anymore, but we still need every fighter we can get.”

“Guess it's a good thing you brought your son back with you then,” Charlie replied, opening the jar. Bass caught a hint of something sharp and green, then she began to rub the first scoop into edge of his wound.

It. Felt. _Heavenly_. The minute the mixture touched his skin, the throbbing ache of his abused flesh stopped, eased away by the tingling coolness of the salve. Bass let out a sound that could almost have been a whimper and he thought he saw the corner of a smile on Charlie's face before his eyes slid closed at the pleasure of it.

Charlie tended the worst of the wheels fist, dabbing the mixture on thickly. Then she began to run her hands up and down his back, spreading the salve with sure, even strokes. Bass groaned and he heard Charlie chuckle, soft and light. Her touch was still gentle, mindful of his injuries, but now he could feel her hands running over his muscles, almost stroking him as she spread that blissful coolness across his back. Bass melted farther and farther into the ground, tension he hadn't even realized that he was carrying oozing out of him under her touch.

Bass wished that she would sit so that he could lay his head in her lap. He could almost feel the warmth of her thigh against his cheek, the feel of her fingers as she ran them through his hair, soothing him. It was a ridiculous image, a ridiculous desire, but in that moment Bass wanted nothing more than to curl up around her and let the pain fade away, let everything but the feel of her hands on his skin drift into black nothingness, letting him rest in a peace he so rarely found.

“Bass?” Her voice was quiet and seemed very far away. “Are you asleep?”

“No,” he replied, his voice thick and groggy. He knew she was laughing at him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. There was no maliciousness in her amusement, only a warm humor he remembered from his childhood with Miles. He was safe, safe here with her. He could close his eyes, could rest. She would guard his sleep, just like before.

“You need to let the salve sink in. Rest. I'm going to take a quick bath in the stream, seeing as _someone_ got my hands covered in his blood. I'll wake you when it's time to go.”

Bass grunted his affirmation, the bliss of exhaustion already pulling at him. But he cracked open an eyelid, looking towards where he could hear the water splashing. Charlie wasn't far, hunkered down by the stream as he had been, her back to him.

Her tank top was on the ground behind her. Her hair spilled forward as she leaned out over the water, leaving the long, golden line of her back exposed to the afternoon sunlight filtering down through the trees. Bass knew he should close his eyes, knew he should look away. But the sight of her bare, uninterrupted back moved him in a way he didn't understand. When was the last time someone had turned their back to him, shown him that sign of trust? Was that why he couldn't look away? Maybe it the beauty of her, muscled and lean and golden in the greenery of the forest, a dryad like the old stories. She scooped up some water and Bass could see the curve of a breast hinted at as she lifted her arms, running her hands through her hair.

“Close your eyes or lose them, Monroe.” There wasn't any anger in her voice, nor did she turn or try to cover herself. Bass smiled slightly, allowing himself one last look, then shut his eyes, the melting coolness of the salve to once more lulling his mind into rest. He drifted off to the sound of water being splashed onto skin and the image of sunlight on caressing a golden back, just as her hands had caressed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is so short, I'm going to post the next one in the series, since I won't have any time to write over the long weekend coming up. I hope you guys enjoyed this one, and I would love to hear from you! Next is part one of New Vegas, which I am very excited about. Cheers guys!


End file.
